


Fire Pit

by yarroway



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Injury Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarroway/pseuds/yarroway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the PPTH Fourth of July cookout.  What could possibly go wrong?  Set between seasons 6 and 7, this fic was written for the 2010 Fourth of July challenge on LJ's sick_Wilson.  It features House and Wilson's friendship, with a smattering of House/Cuddy and Wilson/Sam in the background.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: House, M.D. belongs to Heel & Toe Films, ShoreZ Productions, Bad Hat Harry Productions, and Universal Media Studios. I'm not making any money from this. 
> 
> Thanks: to srsly_yes for her kick-ass beta.

On July fourth every year the Board of Directors and Dean of Medicine threw the hospital staff a cookout in a nearby park. The Powers That Be of Princeton University usually showed up long enough to fake some solidarity with the staff, eat a few hot dogs, and head home. Cuddy wanted them to remember her and her cookouts fondly, so she wanted to feed them well. That was why she usually asked Wilson to man the grill.

This year she had a new one, and Wilson was enjoying breaking it in. It had plenty of room, a warming tier, a side tray for plates and condiments, and it was big enough for him to cook some chicken and burgers and sausage and dogs and corn and portobellos all at the same time. It used charcoal, which Wilson thought gave the grilled foods a better taste than propane grills did. He waited politely until after everyone had stacked their plates high with food before taking a quick break. He knew the horde would be back soon for more.

On his way back from the restroom, Wilson watched his colleagues. House was at the grill making another of his attempts at the Best Burger Ever and messing with Wilson's tongs. Last time he'd been going on about pickle placement in relation to catapult construction. Or maybe they weren't related. Wilson wasn't sure. At any rate he seemed to be trying a new combination this time.

Wilson turned, searching for Sam. There she was, in denim shorts and a tee shirt, quarterbacking the football game. Wilson frowned, realizing the players were closer to the grill than he'd thought. He decided to talk to them during their next time out. No sense taking stupid chances.

Owens, the big, burly Pulmonologist, had the ball and was racing for the goal. Foreman was closing in. Then Foreman readied himself to lunge. Wilson realized what their trajectory was, visualized the scene seconds before it happened: the tackle sending them both flying into the grill, the grill toppling, House standing there putting ketchup and pickles on his burger, right where it was all about to come crashing down.

Wilson ran. He yelled a warning even though he knew it was too late. House looked up, looked horrified, and hopped all too slowly aside. Foreman slammed into Owens and Wilson slammed into House, and then there was the roaring of the fire and the hissing of the steam and the raining of the coals.

Then came the pain.

It hurt. Oh God, it hurt. There was a clamor of voices, everyone was shouting at once and somewhere nearby a badly injured animal was screaming. All Wilson knew for sure was the burning in his body. The fire was on him, consuming him. He struggled to break free of it and run.

"Hold still. Hold _still_." House's voice.

Wilson tried to answer and realized those screams were coming from him.

"You okay?" he gasped out.

House's face was white where it wasn't bloody, but he nodded. Wilson hoped it was true. He couldn't do anything for House right now if it wasn't, and no one else would ever think to. Not in any way that mattered.

Someone jostled him. Pain spiked. Wilson threw back his head and screamed. He couldn't stop this time, though House's face got whiter and Sam--where had she come from?--was crying. The world faded into a blur of voices and sirens and House demanding morphine.

The flames burning within him eased slowly into a narcotic-driven haze. Sleep beckoned, a sea of painlessness. Wilson sank.


	2. Chapter 2

The next period of time was a blur. Just pain and fuzzy-headedness and unknown faces telling him he'd be fine. He had the impression that Sam and his family had come by, but it might have been a dream. He knew House had been there, because House had left him a message in bright, indelible violet-blue ink on the fingernails of his left hand to tell him so, one letter for each finger: HOUSE.

When he woke up alone, muzzy from the drugs and unsure of what had happened or whether he'd gotten to the grill in time, he could see those letters and read the message. House was okay. He'd been here. He was coming back. Wilson stared at them during debridements and dressing changes, until his sight was too blurred with tears to see.

***********************************

He came back to himself suddenly, just opened his eyes and there the world was, clear and immediate. House slept in a recliner beside him. Wilson took in the unfamiliar room, special equipment, lack of door, and figured he must be in a burn center ICU somewhere.

"Hey," he said. His voice sounded hoarse, and too quiet. Wilson cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey."

House stirred and lifted his head. He blinked groggily at Wilson. Then House seemed to come all the way awake. His eyes flicked over Wilson's face, his body, taking in everything.

"Huh," he said. "How do you feel?"

Wilson took a moment to think about the answer. His back, butt, right side, right shoulder and arm hurt. It wasn't bad, though.

Then a layer of mental fog lifted. Deep burns killed nerves. They wouldn't hurt.

"You tell me."

House fumbled for his chart, though Wilson knew he must have memorized the entire thing. Temporizing then. This was going to be bad.

"You suffered second and third degree burns over 12% of your body."

 _Oh_ , Wilson thought, and then, _Fuck._

"You had some skin rapidly grown and grafted on."

"That's, that's not the protocol," Wilson said. He should have had a regular graft.

"Yeah, well, turns out there's a guy in Pennsylvania who's been working on this stuff, and it just so happens I saved his mother's life a few years back. He was grateful both for that and to have an new experimental subject."

Wilson broke out in a sweat. This thing was experimental, and it was on him. _In_ him.

House must have noticed, must have seen, because he paused in his dry recitation of all Wilson's treatments and injuries. "Relax. The clinical trials are wrapping up with excellent results and no longitudinal effects at all."

Wilson swallowed. "And by longitudinal you mean…"

"Twelve months."

"Twelve months is not longitudinal. You--turned me into an experiment. I never expected you to be grateful, but I thought at least you'd be considerate. I can't believe you talked Sam into this."

"She didn't have a choice," House said.

"What are you talking about? What did you do to my girlfriend?" As upset as he was, the question came out sharper than he'd intended and now a blonde haired specter was in the room with them.

House sighed. He stared down at Wilson's chart. "You never changed your proxy or POA. I made the decisions. Sam was pissed, but there was nothing she could do. It's your own damn fault for not updating your paperwork."

Wilson remembered that now. He hadn't been sure of Sam. She was explosive and in the brief time they'd been back together she had already broken up with him once. He hadn't wanted anyone so unreliable to make decisions for him. House was… House, but he was here, and brilliant, and Wilson knew he could count on House for both of those things.

"I'd forgotten. Guess I'm still a little fuzzy-headed. It wasn't an oversight."

House lifted his chin. "You meant for this to happen," he challenged.

"I trust you," Wilson admitted.

House raised an eyebrow. "Preliminary data suggest that after the first year, patients develop large pustulant lesions and an insatiable appetite for raw cow brains."

Wilson smiled.

*****************************************************

They told him he was making progress. They moved him to a regular room. They gave him this kind of therapy and that kind of therapy and what it all boiled down to was that he hurt and in the process of healing he was going to hurt a whole lot more. Wilson was gaining a new appreciation for drugs because all he wanted--the only thing he wanted in the world-- were his pain meds, and they weren't due for another forty minutes. Wilson didn't hurt in forty minutes. He hurt _now_.

Sam put something wet and cold on his forehead.

"What the hell?" Wilson grabbed it off. It was a wet washcloth. "Why did you put this thing on my head?"

"It's a cold compress. I thought it might make you feel better."

"It might-- _if I had a fever_. You're a doctor so tell me, do I have a fever?" She opened her mouth but he didn't give her time to answer. "No, I don't. So why would you put a filthy, slimy rag on my head?"

Sam's mouth stayed open but no sound came out. Then she closed it, took back the cloth, and laid it aside. When she turned back to him she was smiling, but there were lines of strain around her mouth.

"I'm sorry you’re feeling so bad," she said, and sat beside him.

Her cool fingers stroked his hair. Wilson closed his eyes. It was as close to feeling good as he'd come since…well, since. Then something tapped his temple. It happened again, and then again. Wilson turned his head. Sam was wearing a charm bracelet and the little gold bangle on it bumped into him every time she moved.

He knocked Sam's hand away, furious at her lack of consideration. He caught a flash of hurt in her eyes and felt immediately guilty. He was irritable. He knew that, and he was taking it out on her.

"Having fun?" It was House, lounging in the doorway. He held a cup of coffee in one hand, his cane in the other, and looked entirely too casual.

Wilson tensed. Meetings between House and his girlfriends rarely went well, and Sam was stressed. The last thing he needed was House upsetting her now, or the two of them getting into some kind of pissing contest. Amber and House had practically come to blows. Julie would give him the cold shoulder for a week after dealing with House. Bonnie had her passive-aggressive routine when she was tired of his friend. What would Sam, impetuous, aggressive Sam, do?

"Thank God you're here," Sam said. Wilson was shocked to hear the absolute sincerity in her voice. She stood and gathered her things. "I'm going to get some lunch. Call me if you need anything."

House waited until she had walked past the nursing station and quirked an eyebrow at Wilson. "Generally it’s a bad sign when your girlfriends are happy to see me. What happened?"

Wilson sighed. "She put a compress on my head and hit me with her bracelet."

"That _bitch_ ," House said, going heavy on the sarcasm. "Want me and the boys to take her out behind the woodshed and whup her ass?"

Wilson grimaced. "If you're trying to tell me I'm being difficult, I already know."

House sat beside him and put his feet up on the bed. He sipped his coffee. "I think everyone in earshot knows."

Wilson scoffed. "Like you have room to talk. Do I have to remind you how impossible you were?" After the infarction, Cuddy'd practically had to give House's nurses hazard pay.

House leaned forward. "Do I have to remind _you_ how that turned out for me?"

That thought hit him right in the gut. Was he pushing Sam away like House had Stacy?

Suddenly it was all intolerable. He hated lashing out at Sam and he hated lying in bed all the time and he hated being in pain and he hated the smell of the coffee House was drinking and he hated that Sam could go out for lunch while he was stuck here in a broken, hurting body that gave him no peace. He hurled the bedside water pitcher across the room, a river flowing in its wake.

"I'm doing the best I can!"

House clicked on the television and said, very gently, "I know."


	3. Chapter 3

House did most of his work over conference calls, only driving to PPTH when he absolutely had to. The team, Foreman confided to Wilson when they visited, was blissfully happy with this arrangement, and conspired to keep his visits down to once per patient. Wilson was worried that they'd forget how much they needed House and get a little too comfortable without him, but then Taub came out one night with a stack of MRI images, and he and House ran a differential at Wilson's bedside until dawn when Taub crashed in Wilson's recliner and House barked orders to his team, and another patient was saved.

As Wilson healed, he began to make plans. Or rather, the social worker made plans and then told him about them. Wilson wouldn't go home after discharge. Not yet. He needed follow-up care, which meant daily trips to the hospital. He was facing rehab, possibly another graft, and a long time in pressure bandages. But the new skin was doing well, there were no signs of infection, and he was beginning to be able to use his right shoulder again. Better, he was healing fast, and the scars were looking and acting like normal scars--thanks in part to the experimental skin House had got him-- which mean he might not need any additional surgeries.

There might even come a day when he didn't cringe just looking at himself.

Cuddy and Sam sublet a two-bedroom place for House and him to stay in until he was ready to return home. Sam had hugged him goodbye yesterday. She couldn't take any more time off work, but she swore she'd be out to see him every weekend. And if her gaze lingered a little too long on the handsome head of the burn program, well, Wilson couldn't blame her. He was out of action for the foreseeable future. He was scarred and aging and not quite the man she remembered. Wilson didn’t know how long it would be until weekend visits with him turned into weekend visits with the other guy, but he knew his ex well enough to know it was coming. He'd enjoy her as much as his battered body would allow until then.

************************************************

"Come on," House said.

Wilson got gingerly into the car. He hadn't seen their new place yet, hadn't been anywhere but the burn center since _it_ happened.

No, he wasn't going to think about that now. That thought was for when he was alone. Those memories were best forgotten, or at least locked away. They came out to play when he was alone, and in his sleep, but his rising anxiety wasn't something anyone else needed to know. Especially House who, Cuddy complained, after the accident had adamantly refused treatment for his own minor burns. House definitely did not need to know.

Wilson pushed all that aside. He was going to think about Cuddy now, waiting for them at the new place. Sam wasn't good at waiting, but Cuddy was. Waiting for House, waiting for Wilson's recovery, waiting for dinner to arrive. Wilson had a craving for red hot food. House had promised him a spicy Korean beef stew and kimchi. For tonight, a good meal in good company would be enough.

House pulled into a condominium complex. The lawn was mowed to within an inch of its life. Thirty feet away a man trimmed the already neat bushes. Two kids were washing a car. House unlocked the front door. It swung soundlessly open. This would be their home for the next few weeks, depending on complications and Wilson's progress.

Wilson took in the immaculate, empty entryway, and thought the place was missing something. But Sam and Cuddy had picked it out for them, so Wilson walked in, sure that inside the rest was modern and cozy and---yellow? Bright, unforgiving yellow walls glared at him like baleful suns.

Wilson turned in a circle, staring in amazement. The living room before them was searing yellow. A couch and arm chair were the color of smouldering embers. On their left the kitchen was a glaring white with red trimmings like bright smears of blood.

The walls were closing in. Wilson backed towards the door. Flames ran across his vision, close, too close. The acrid stench of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils.

Then he was outside, gulping in fresh, smoke-free air. House and Cuddy were beside him looking concerned.

"I'll get my purse," Cuddy said, and turned to head inside. She was walking right into the fire!

Wilson grabbed her arm and swung her backwards with all his strength. She fell, landing hard on the sparse grass.

"Hey!" House yelled, and grabbed him.

"Don't!" Wilson pulled helplessly against House, trying to get out of his hold without hurting him. "Don't go in there," he pleaded to Cuddy. "You'll die!"

Cuddy's expression changed from outrage into pity. She got slowly to her feet.

"I'm all right," she said, and Wilson wasn't sure whether she was reassuring House or himself. House loosened his grip.

"You," he said to Wilson, "didn't like the paint job. All those warm fiery colors." He turned to Cuddy. "And _you_ are supposed to be the sensitive one. What were you thinking?"

She rolled her eyes and brushed at her skirt. "That it was available by the week, and close to the hospital."

House snorted. "Wilson?"

Wilson frowned. Had there been a fire at all? There hadn't, had there? He had the sinking feeling that he'd just made a spectacular ass of himself.

"If I let go, are you going to run screaming down the street or something? Because if you are, I'm going to swipe your phone first to take pictures."

Wilson shook his head. The fire…hadn't existed. He was fine. Mortified, but fine.

"I'm sorry," he said to Cuddy. "Are you all right? I'm so sorry."

"You were confused," she said kindly. "At least I know that if I ever tried to walk into a burning building, someone would stop me. _He_ ," she nodded at House, "would just make s'mores."

Wilson had a sudden image of himself on fire, House beside him nonchalantly toasting marshmallows in the flames. He was suddenly, dizzyingly sick.

It hadn't happened that way, he reminded himself. He remembered the panic in House's voice. He remembered hands brushing fire off of him and the intense heat and weight of the grill being flung aside.

House was cursing. "What is wrong with you?!" he shouted, and Cuddy swore back and they were fighting right here on the lawn in front of everyone. Wilson couldn't let them fight over him.

"Stop it!" he yelled with a sweeping gesture that sent pain coursing all across his shoulder, arm and back. He pointed at Cuddy. "She is trying to help." He turned to Cuddy and pointed at House. "He is just worried. Don't fight. Don't--don't fight."

He had to turn away then and take a few breaths. He heard Cuddy say something about a different sublet, and walk away.

House came over and stood beside him. "You want to wait in the car?"

Wilson knew that translated into 'my leg hurts and I need to sit down', so he got in.

House sat beside him. "You okay?"

Wilson loosed a shaky breath. "Aside from the embarrassment of freaking out in front of my boss. Not to mention how proud I am of myself for throwing a woman to the ground."

"You know you have nothing to be ashamed of," House offered.

Wilson glared.

"It's normal! Anxiety is expected in burn patients, or weren't you listening to the discharge lecture?"

Wilson shook his head. If there had been any discharge instructions or lectures, he hadn't paid attention to them. Lately he couldn't seem to pay attention to much of anything. "Just--tell me it won't last."

"It won't," House assured him.

Wilson nodded again. He hoped it was true.

Subletting so near the hospital was apparently good business. It took Cuddy less than half an hour to return with the keys to another place just down the street. By then Wilson had convinced himself that the worst was over, that he and House, and sometimes Cuddy and sometimes Sam could live here happily while he recuperated, that everything would be all right and the worst was over and things were starting to look up and even as he told himself these lies he knew it wouldn't be that easy.


	4. Chapter 4

The days after Wilson's discharge from inpatient care were long, boring, and filled with unpleasantness. House had hired a therapist to come in and torture him on the days Wilson didn't have PT or OT at the hospital. Cuddy usually came out on the weekends, and she and House would try to be a family, or a couple, or whatever they were playing at. Wilson hid in his bedroom then, to give them as much privacy as he could.

Sam had promised to drive up this Saturday, but left a message late Thursday night to say she couldn't make it. Wilson hadn't called her back. He was pretty sure that the next time they spoke she was going to tell him goodbye, and he didn’t want to hear it. He'd seen Sam's car in the hospital lot on days when she had not been visiting him, and once he'd caught sight of her laughing with Dr. Jenson. He pretended that everything was fine and made excuses to House and went to therapy to try to get his shoulder working.

On Friday Wilson came home from therapy aching and exhausted, and plopped down on the couch. His thoughts turned automatically to Sam, and then he remembered that she wasn't coming. He had hoped she would stick around long enough to be here for this. He wanted her here, sitting beside him, her hand stroking his. He wanted it even if it was a lie. Lies can be simple, useful things and Wilson would happily have settled for this one.

House wandered out of his bedroom and joined him on the couch. Since Sam had vanished, House had been living with him full time. That was great, really, because House could do all the dressing changes and spread the different medications where he couldn't reach, and keep an eye on how he was healing. Sam could have done it too, though. If she were here.

House put his feet up on the coffee table. "Lisa's cousin can't keep Rachel this weekend, so she's going to stay in Princeton," he said unhappily.

"Then go to Princeton," Wilson told him. All this time away from each other was taking a toll on House's romance, and Wilson didn't want to be any part of the reason it failed.

"And you'll do what while I'm gone?" House asked.

"The exact same thing I do when you're here."

"So, sit on the sofa and mope, then."

"I'm not moping."

"But you are sitting on the sofa," House pointed out. "That's all you ever do."

Wilson sighed. House was exaggerating, but not by much. "I'm tired. The only place I want to go is bed. How did we get onto me, anyway? You should go to Princeton this weekend. Seriously, I don't need a babysitter. I'm fine, and you'll be miserable if you don't go. So go."

House looked unconvinced, but Wilson knew he wanted to be with Cuddy. She hadn't been by for two weeks except for the overnight House didn't think he knew about. As if anyone could have slept through all that screaming and moaning.

"I mean it," Wilson added. "I know a nurse who is always looking for extra work. She'll come in and deal with the dressing changes and wound care. It'll be fine. Go."

House cocked his head. "I'll make a deal with you. You come out with me tonight, and I'll go home this weekend."

Wilson rubbed his neck, considering this. He didn’t want to go anywhere or see anyone. On the other hand, House needed to spend less time with him and more time with Cuddy, or their relationship had no hope at all of working. Wilson couldn't stand in the way of that. If going out with House for one evening would get him to Princeton, then that was what he'd do.

"Okay, but you do know you don’t have to stick around, right?"

House made a face. "Golly gee, Warden, am I really free to go?"

Wilson ignored the sarcasm. "I'm not in any kind of danger any more. What about my recovery could possibly be so interesting?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Then…why…?"

"Are you kidding?" House asked, his brows climbing. "I'm here helping my very bestest bud. No clinic hours, no patients to deal with unless I want to…it's like the perfect vacation. Well, I could use girls in bikinis, but a guy has to make some sacrifices for his friends. Also, watching you sit around depressing yourself has its entertainment value."

"I'm not depressed," Wilson said automatically. The words felt wrong as he spoke them. Okay, maybe he was a little down. Maybe he wasn't enjoying life just now. Maybe he was missing his girlfriend, who swore she couldn't get away from work to see him while she parked her car in the burn center lot and flirted with Wilson's doctor.

"You know what?" Wilson said. "I am a little…under the weather. I can't do anything. I can't even take care of myself! Sam's all but broken up with me. She's already worming her way into Jenson's bed."

"Jenson the burn program guy?" House asked, a gleam in his eye.

"Yeah," Wilson said.

"You're sure?"

"I've seen her car there. And you know Sam, she works fast."

House sniggered, and Wilson braced himself for a bout of teasing. "Erectile dysfunction," House said.

"No," Wilson said firmly, raising a hand in denial. "No. Don't you even…No."

"Not _you_ ," House replied. "Him. Doctor uncontrolled diabetes."

"Are you sure?"

House tapped the side of his nose knowingly. He was sure.

Suddenly Wilson was feeling a whole lot better. "What club did you have in mind?"

*************************************************

RJ's was more of a bar than a club, though there was a tiny stage against the wall where, House assured him, bands sometimes played. It was dim inside, and just busy enough that they didn't stand out. Wilson sat at a little table with House eating peanuts and listening to oldies while a girl brought them drinks. Wilson's had to be nonalcoholic, but he did steal a sip or two from House.

The seat was uncomfortable against his burnt skin. Wilson had adamantly refused to bring a cushion, preferring pain to embarrassment. That meant he wouldn't be able to sit for long, but even with the pain it was actually pretty nice to be out.

Wilson planted his left elbow on the table and leaned forward slightly so House could hear him better over the noise. "The weather report says it's going to rain tomorrow. You should take my car."

"I'm not going."

"You said you'd go if I did. I'm here, and you're going."

House shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

House hesitated. "You're depressed," he said finally. "You shouldn't be alone."

What? What? "You're turning down free sex to stay home with me?"

House shrugged as if that were a matter of no importance. Except it was, and Cuddy was, and they both knew it.

"Everything okay with you and Cuddy?"

"Yeah. It's great."

"Oh," Wilson bluffed, reaching for his phone. "Then you won't mind if I offer to take care of Rachel so you can spend all weekend together."

"Not at all," House said, gesturing for him to go ahead.

Wilson got to his contact list and pressed Cuddy's number. House didn't signal Wilson to stop or even look uncomfortable. Wilson hung up before she could answer.

House had never flinched.

"Well," Wilson said, "it isn't problems with your girlfriend, so it must be problems with me." He thought about that for a minute. What could keep House here when everything he wanted was there? _You're depressed_ , House had said. _You shouldn't be alone._ Perhaps he'd meant it.

Damn. _He_ was keeping House from all the things that made him happy. "Am I that pathetic?"

"You're not pathetic." House said dismissively, getting to his feet. "Be right back. Try to think of something less depressing to talk about while I get another beer."

He was lying, of course. Wilson was exactly that pathetic. He was so useless that House--House, of all people--wouldn't leave him alone even to spend time with the woman he loved. Wilson rested his head in his hand. He'd tried to help but instead he was destroying House's best and probably only chance at a normal relationship. What kind of friend did that? What kind of friend could he be, any more?

Lately Wilson felt like he was losing touch with the man than he'd been before _it_. Before he had been a lover, a doctor, and a friend. These days he was too wrapped up in himself to feel much of anything for anyone, and too weak to do anything with the little he did feel. That was why Sam was leaving. He hadn't offered her anything to stay for.

House came back to the table holding a beer and stood, saying nothing, probably doing one of those split second assessments he was so good at. Wilson straightened up and smiled.

"Come on," House said, not smiling back. "We're leaving."

*************************************************

On the drive home Wilson thought about what to do. He had to get Cuddy out here, which meant he had to find childcare for Rachel. That couldn't be hard, could it? Her regular nanny didn't work weekends, but there had to be an agency or something that dealt with this. All he had to do was call the two nurses whose numbers he had and ask them what they did with their own children, and if that failed he could use the yellow pages to find nannies. It should be simple.

It wasn't.

Before it would have been no trouble at all to solve House and Cuddy's problem. Now, though… He was too tired. He was always tired, and he just didn’t want to do anything except go to bed.

House pulled into their spot. Wilson got out very carefully, because he hurt everywhere, especially his ass from sitting on a hard chair. He headed inside, straight for the bathroom to take his pain killers and antibiotics. When he got out he went into his room and changed for bed. Then he lay down and stared out the window, waiting for the pills to kick in and sleep to come.

Wilson heard the television turn on in the living room. He recognized the music. House had found a channel playing Vertigo, or maybe he'd rented it. Wilson wondered muzzily why House had wanted to see it, and then sleep claimed him.


	5. Chapter 5

Wilson woke, scratched, and rolled over to try to get back to sleep. It was Tuesday night, or optimistically Wednesday morning, and as usual, he itched. He sighed and glanced at his travel alarm.

Two hours. He'd managed two hours of sleep.

Wilson knew by now that healing burns could itch badly, but for the last several nights it had been much worse. He got up, stopping himself from scratching the delicate skin. There was anti-itch cream in the bathroom among all his various ointments and pills. He tore off his tee shirt and pants, forced himself once again to stop rubbing, and squeezed a big glop of medicated cream onto his hand. He spread it everywhere he could reach. He wasn't really limber enough to do a good job on his back, though. As the other itches faded the ones he couldn't reach intensified.

Tears of frustration filled his eyes. All along he'd been telling himself that he'd get back to normal soon. But after everything, after all this time, he still felt lousy. Maybe this was the new normal and it would never get better. Maybe the old him was gone and this new version was all there was, hurting and itching and so pathetic that he couldn't even do the most basic, essential things for himself.

With a cry of frustration Wilson gave in and rubbed his back against the door frame, using it to scratch where he could not reach. The itch faded. Wilson breathed a sigh of relief.

He turned to get his clothes off the floor, and froze. There was blood on the wall. He'd injured himself scratching, which meant he needed to clean the area, put antibiotic ointment on it, and bandage it. Which meant he had to wake House. All because he was too big of an idiot to have kept from scratching.

Wilson put his pajamas back on and went to House's door. He could hear slow, heavy breathing. Wilson opened the door quietly and peeked in. House was asleep, pill bottle open on his bedside table and heating pad lying on the floor, signs of a restless night.

Wilson closed the door soundlessly and went into the living room. His back hurt where the skin had torn. Wilson got a sheet and draped it over the couch so he wouldn't stain the furniture. Then he sat back and forced himself to get interested in a Real Housewives marathon.

************************************************

He woke to House's sharp, shocked, "Wilson!"

House rolled him forward and tried to lift his shirt. "What did you do?"

"Ow!" The blood had clotted, sticking the shirt to his skin, or what had used to be his skin, anyway. He'd screwed up, and he'd have to go back to the hospital, and he didn't fucking want to.

House came at him with a pair of scissors. "Bend over," he instructed.

"No," Wilson said. He got up and waved House off. "Leave me alone."

"Either you let me cut that shirt off and examine you, or we go to the hospital. Which one will it be?"

"Neither." Wilson went into his room, slamming the door behind him.

House followed. "Oh, come on. I know you're itchy. So instead of waking me up like a sensible doctor type person, you decided to deal with it on your own, injured yourself, and refused to fix it. Now we have to deal with the result of your idiocy."

"I'm fine," Wilson said. He was being stubborn, and he didn't care. He did not want to go back in to the hospital to get his skin ripped at again. It hurt too damn much, and didn’t help anyway.

House visibly changed tactics. "Why didn't you call me?"

Wilson looked away. "You were sleeping."

"Because injuring yourself and setting back your recovery is a better option?" House asked angrily. He sighed and added, "It's okay to need help."

"You've been tired. The leg's been bad. I didn’t want to wake you."

House didn't reply. The exasperation on his face was answer enough.

"I know. I'm just…I'm tired. Frustrated." Wilson shook his head. "This isn’t getting any better. It's pointless." Wilson sat down on his bed. His head felt heavy; he rested it in his hands. "Just leave me alone."

House's eyes narrowed. "Aren’t you the same guy who used to get on my case for not trying new pain management techniques? Popping pills instead of trying to find a solution? Giving up too soon?"

"No," Wilson said. "That guy's dead."

House was still for a long moment. Then he left.

Wilson heard House rummaging around in the kitchen, heard the rustling of a cereal box and the fridge door squeaking closed. Then there was a long period of silence. Wilson couldn't figure out what House was doing. Could he really be eating breakfast after all that? Could he be that okay with what was happening? Wilson wasn't.

He was stubborn, not stupid. Wilson knew he was in trouble and needed his back to be checked. His anger faded, replaced by worry. The longer he waited the greater were the chances of an infection. Infection could mean surgeries, more time spent in recovery, more pain…given the superbugs floating around these days it also meant a chance of death.

How could House just sit there eating when his best friend needed to go to the hospital? Why wasn't he in here nagging and threatening? What the hell was wrong with him, anyway?

Wilson came into the kitchen. House looked up at him but didn't stop shoveling Cap'n Crunch into his mouth.

"Muwansom?" he asked, still chewing. He waved a hand towards the cereal box on the counter. Apparently he was suggesting Wilson help himself. Wilson frowned. He wasn't in the mood to appreciate House's brand of consideration.

Wilson slipped on his shoes. "Hurry up," he said. "I need to go in to the hospital."

House slurped some milk out of his bowl, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and rose.

*************************************************************

In the end, Wilson only had to spend six long, excruciating hours in the hospital. House swore his back now resembled a map of the Mississippi river delta.

They stopped at a pharmacy on their way back home to buy two bottles of skin moisturizer and get more Benadryl.

Not ten minutes after they got in, the doorbell rang. Wilson opened the door. A woman stood before him. Her eyes were green and her hair was long and blonde. She had the largest shoulder bag Wilson had ever seen.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Ruth."

"Uh," Wilson said. "Hi?"

Ruth swept in. She put her bag on the floor and pulled out a folding table, which she proceeded to unfold into a padded massage table. Wilson stood watching her. House ambled over to stand beside him.

"She's a real massage therapist," he said. "Works with burn recovery all the time. She's supposed to be the best, but you won't get a happy ending."

Wilson nodded. Sex was not exactly on his mind these days anyway. She was beautiful, though, in a muscular way.

This was not the sort of thing Wilson expected from his friend. This was House being thoughtful and generous, which happened maybe once a decade. On second thought, he'd probably put her on Wilson's credit card, so it was really more thoughtful than generous, but still. This was more than he'd ever expected. "Thanks," he said.

House shifted his weight. "Apparently massage is good for burn recovery," he said. "Reduces swelling and those itchy tingling sensations. It also reduces anxiety and depression."

Ruth had finished setting up. Wilson was glad to see that there were no candles.

She patted the table. "Come on up."

Wilson didn’t move.

"I'll leave you two alone," House said, and started to walk away.

The idea of a massage from a pretty woman, in the abstract, had sounded great. When it came to actually letting her touch him, though…the idea made him nervous.

"Wait," Wilson said, stopping him. House shot him an odd look but stayed. Wilson didn't want to be alone with this woman. He bit his lip. He didn't want her--anyone--to touch him if he could help it.

"Actually, this may be a mistake," Wilson told Ruth with his sweetest smile. "I'm sorry you came out here for nothing, but I don't want this."

She looked at him, rolling a bottle of oil between her hands. "It can be frightening to let someone work on your injuries. Burn survivors in particular can be nervous about massage because their skin is sensitive and they've been through so many painful procedures. You start to think that any touch will be painful."

Wilson rubbed his neck. Since _it_ happened, people touching him had been painful. What made it worse was that the injuries were all on his back so he could never see what people were doing to him.

"How about if I just do your feet?" she suggested. "You weren't hurt there, and if anything feels even a little uncomfortable, tell me and I'll stop. Okay?"

Wilson glanced at House. He looked impassive, but the downturn of his mouth said he was worried. That, more than anything else, made Wilson change his mind. He sat on the couch. Ruth moved the coffee table and knelt before him.

"I'd like you to hold his hand," she said to House. "It will help him relax."

"A shot of whiskey would help him relax," House said, but a moment later he let their arms brush as he sat down.

Ruth poured a little oil into her palm and rubbed it into her hands. She took Wilson's left foot between her hands. He jerked involuntarily.

House twisted to face him. "If you don't want to beautiful woman to oil you up, I'll take her. She can rub me anytime. Anywhere."

"House," Wilson protested, and Ruth dug her fingers into his foot. "Oh!" His hands fisted closed. He was so keyed up that for a moment he wasn't sure whether he was feeling pain or pleasure.

"Deep breaths," Ruth told him. "Exhale." She breathed out with him as her fingers stroked his arch. She told him to inhale, and pressed into the ball of his foot, stroking again as they exhaled together. Wilson felt his fists loosen.

Ruth was good at this. Really good. Wilson felt himself simultaneously tightening up and relaxing as his body struggled against her. After a while Ruth abandoned any deeper muscle work and just rubbed his feet lightly.

"Did that hurt at all?"

Wilson hesitated and then shook his head. It hadn't.

"I'm going to do your calves now," she said, rolling up his pant legs. "Then I'll do your head and neck. I know your right shoulder was injured, so I won't go near that area until you're comfortable with it."

Wilson nodded again, though he was still pretty unsure of this whole thing. House was looking at him strangely, but Wilson couldn't spare the energy to puzzle that out now. He was using everything he had just to sit here and let her handle him. Slowly, gradually, Wilson felt himself relax into the massage. It might have been hours later that she had him turn on the couch and brace his body against the cushions.

As she started work on his back Wilson felt sadness building inside him. Other than when he'd been off his head on narcotics it had never not hurt there. What Ruth was doing felt good. That was --a little overwhelming, actually. He'd thought this would hurt, had braced himself for the pain. He was always braced for pain. 

To feel pleasure again, where he'd never thought to feel it--in a way it was the most frightening thing of all. It made him vulnerable. It made him realize just how bad everything else felt.

Wilson turned his face into the cushions where, if he let a tear fall, no one would see.

*****************************************************

Something smelled good. Wilson lifted his head and realized he'd fallen asleep during his session with Ruth. He moved, feeling more give in the shoulder than he'd thought possible.

House was in the kitchen singing Gilbert and Sullivan under his breath and making some kind of meal fragrant with garlic and chicken.

Wilson walked into the kitchen to see. House was chopping carrots. A big pot of chicken soup was simmering, with small cubes of chicken and what looked like parsnip in it. A bunch of celery and some fresh dill lay on the counter, alongside a bag of egg noodles.

House was making chicken soup. It looked like he'd already boiled the chicken, cut it into pieces and added them back into the pot. The skin sat discarded on a plate.

Wilson realized that he must have slept for hours. He stared at the pot. He didn't want chicken soup. That was for kids home sick with the flu. Since _it_ Wilson had been craving hot, spicy foods, chilis and curries, anything he could get his hands on.

Still, it smelled good. Wilson took a spoon and sipped. The chicken was moist, and the broth garlicky and divine. "Mmmmm."

"Cripple here," House said, ignoring the compliment as he reached around Wilson for the salt. "Don't stand there in my way."

"I can help," Wilson protested. He took up a stalk of celery.

House eyed him doubtfully, but passed over a knife. Wilson began to chop.


	6. Chapter 6

Note--This chapter was double the size of previous ones, so I've broken it into two. Chapter 6 is the first half, and Chapter 7 the second.

 

"Home, sweet home." House hung his windbreaker in the loft's coat closet, where it promptly slithered off the hanger and onto Wilson's duck boots. Wilson picked it up and began to hang it, but his shoulder protested. He dropped it back down to the closet floor with a grimace. House, of course, ignored all of this. Lately House had reverted to some of his selfish ways, which was fine, really. Expected and absolutely fine, because Wilson was used to that, and he didn't need much help anymore, anyway.

Wilson wheeled the luggage into their respective bedrooms, pleased that it didn't hurt much to do it himself. When he came out House was already sitting in front of the flat screen.

"You don’t have to stay here, you know," Wilson said, sitting down beside him.

"Ah, but you can't doctor the burns yourself," House said lightly. "You can't even see your back, and you can't reach most of it. It'd be irresponsible of me to let you stay alone. Plus, hey, free cable," House added, turning to HBO and leaning back against the cushions, legs spread wide. On the screen three men shot at each other for no discernable reason.

"So you're not avoiding Cuddy?" She hadn't been by lately, and House hadn't visited her.

"No, I'm helping you," he said, "and coincidentally avoiding having my leg climbed on by Rachel."

"Well," Wilson said, "I suppose it's time I get to know her better. I could watch her for you two, give you some time together on the weekends."

"Thanks," House said simply. He powered off the TV. "Lunch was six hours ago. Let's celebrate our return to Princeton with an orgy of sugar and carbs."

House wanted to go to Mickey's for dinner? That was fine with Wilson. He hadn't had been there in ages. Sam had been too big a health nut for towers of eggy fried bread oozing with syrup.

**************************************

Wilson sighed in contentment. He was happily full.

House scraped the last stray bit of avocado off of his plate and looked at it mournfully. Then he grinned up at Wilson. "You and Cuddy finalize your schedule?"

_Cuddy_ , Wilson noted, _not Lisa_. Things were definitely not going well.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "I'm taking the next two days off to settle back in. Then I'm going in for a few meetings with my department Friday. Next week I start back at half time."

"Did you schedule with Plastic Surgery Guy?"

Wilson rubbed his face. "Dr. Jimenez? Not yet. I need to focus on getting back up to speed at work first. I'll deal with it then."

"No you won't. You'll get busy at work and put it off, and then you'll decide it's too late to even try, and the whole time you'll be miserable."

Wilson sighed. Getting a plastic surgery consult to make his scars slightly less hideous was low down on his list of priorities. "I'm not miserable."

"Maybe," House said, tilting his head to one side. "But you could be happier. The only people you let see your body are me, Ruth, and the doctors, and you wouldn't if you didn't have to. You're constantly making sure that your sleeve covers your scars, and you refuse to swim because trunks won't cover that stray burn by your knee." House's voice sharpened. "You wouldn't go out with Sandra Bullock."

He had to bring that up, didn't he? "Her name," Wilson said through rapidly clenching teeth, "is Melanie."

"Whatever. She looked like Sandra Bullock, she asked you to dinner, you were clearly into her, and yet you said no."

"I--had an early PT appointment the next morning."

"And that's why you didn't go?"

Wilson looked away. Melanie was nice, and beautiful, and she'd wanted him, and part of him agreed with House that he'd been an idiot to turn her down.

"You're less depressed," House said, with his usual aggravating clinical detachment. "Your sex drive should be coming back."

"Can we please not discuss my sex drive?" Wilson asked, lowering his voice and skipping right by the question of how depressed he was, thank you very much.

"How about we discuss it tomorrow in couples therapy?" House said.

Wilson ran that sentence through his head a second time, trying to parse it into anything that might make sense. "What?"

House grinned, and fluttered his eyelashes. "Tomorrow at ten we have an appointment with Jimenez. He's going to work on both of us and make us pretty. Well, even more strikingly handsome in my case, pretty in yours."

House glanced at Wilson's face and seemed to read his blank confusion. "Do you really think I don't know how the scars make you feel? Do you think I stopped wearing shorts after the infarction by coincidence? Do you think I enjoy knowing that every time I get naked with a woman she's going to feel either pity or revulsion?" House leaned forward. "Do you think I want that for you? I checked this guy out. He's okay. And he's going to do us." House rose. "Be right back." He headed for the men's room.

Wilson frowned, unsure whether to be annoyed or grateful. After all these years with House, it was a very familiar feeling. Maybe House just needed to use Wilson's scars as an excuse to tend to his own. Wilson decided he should go to the initial consultation, at least, and then once House was involved it wouldn't matter anymore what Wilson did. He had important things to do, things that couldn't wait on his vanity. He had to transition back into being department head. He had to catch up, thank everyone for their work while he was way, check on the grant-writing Brown always neglected, write up a quarterly report, and get his own caseload going again. Inspections were in six weeks, and he had to find out if anyone had remembered to put Oncology in to be repainted. Oh, and he needed to check in with his interns, see how their rotations were going. He started scribbling a list on his napkin.

Wilson's phone rang. He didn’t want to be interrupted, but out of habit he checked the caller ID. It was Foreman, probably looking for House, probably about a case. Wilson answered.

"Hey," he said. "Is House's phone dead again?"

His jaw dropped at Foreman's reply.

*********************************************

Wilson was furious. He folded his arms as House rejoined him. "Guess who I just got a call from?"

House jabbed a playful finger at him. "Whatever they told you, I have an alibi."

Wilson's jaw clenched a little tighter. "Eric Foreman. Remember him?"

House tilted his head to one side. "Nope, doesn't ring a bell."

Wilson slammed his hands down on the table. Patrons turned to stare.

"Still no bells," House quipped.

Wilson glared.

"Fine, fine, I confess!" House said, waving a hand. "Yes, I did it. Yes, I finagled someone to show up during Foreman's presentation at the convention and pretend to be the abandoned mother of his three poor starving children who just want their daddy to come home. He can't prove it was me, which will bother him almost as much as the public shaming and professional embarrassment--more, in the long run. He just called you to get back at me. I assume Cuddy will be next." House pulled out his phone and turned it off. After a second he turned off his pager as well.

"Why would you do that?" Wilson asked, feeling some of his anger ebb now that House was talking.

House shrugged. "I got tired of his aftershave."

"I mean, why Foreman? You've seemed pretty happy with his work."

"I was, until I found out they can't afford his four year old's asthma medication. The cad!"

"You haven't been there lately so he can't have annoyed you. Your cases have been going well. You haven't mentioned anything political, and more to the point neither has Cuddy. So why would you target Foreman? What makes him special?"

Then he realized what it was, the thing that made Foreman different, that made House want to hurt him. The accident. House was punishing him for the accident.

"You ASS!"

Wilson walked out. He called Cuddy from the parking lot and asked her if anything had happened lately to Neil Owens. He wasn't surprised to find out that Owens had resigned suddenly and refused to say why.

"Get him back," Wilson told her. "It was House."

Cuddy swore. "Put him on the phone."

"Later," Wilson told her grimly. "I'm not done yet."

He didn't warn her about Foreman. She'd find out soon enough. Wilson turned to go back into the diner.

House stood before him, leaning heavily on his cane.

Wilson thought about what House had done and let loose. "You tried to crush two decent men. You may have destroyed their careers. Owens has two small children. Real ones, who need their parents to bring in some money and carry health insurance."

House didn't move or look up. He just stood listening as Wilson spoke.

"You had to know someone would figure out it was you. They could sue."

House snorted and dipped his head. He'd been sued so many times that Wilson supposed he didn't care, but he still wouldn't look up.

"It could be serious this time. I don't know what you did to Owens, but I'm guessing blackmail. Cuddy has to be careful now that you're involved. She can't protect you without putting herself at risk."

"I don't want her to," House said quietly.

"If you put her in an awkward enough situation, she might just decide that the honor of dating you isn't worth the aggravation. You're risking everything. There are people who would use this against her if she didn’t distance herself from you. You have enemies who'd be glad to find a way to hurt you."

House made no reply.

Wilson sighed. "It was an accident. It wasn't their fault. You can't blame them for this."

"Of course I can."

"What, you think they just suddenly decided, 'Hey it's a boring game, let's go maim someone?'"

House didn’t answer, which meant he was uncomfortable, which meant Wilson was getting close to something House didn't want him to know. "I don't understand. If you're trying to protect me, you're a little late. If you're angry that they were careless, I'd think they made up for it by getting that thing off me as fast as they did. The damage would have been much worse if they hadn't."

House was silent.

"They were injured helping me! Doesn't that count for anything with you?"

"Why does it count for anything with you?" House shot back.

"You think I should be angry with them," Wilson accused. "It was an accident! A mistake. A snafu. It's not--you can't…what?" he asked.

House raised his head, and Wilson faltered. An unholy light burned in his eyes. "They screwed up," House said, the anger boiling over into his voice. "They messed up, and they walked away. You played hero, and it cost you everything. They hurt my friend. They deserve to be punished."

Unbidden, the scene rose before him. The game, House, himself rushing forward. He closed his eyes but it replayed behind his eyelids. He pushed the memory away. It was over. That fire was out. The fire before him--House angry and hating--that fire was the one he had to manage now.

Wilson opened his eyes again, knowing exactly what he had to do. He gestured to the car.

"Let's go," he said.

********************************************

It took Wilson three hours, all his charm, and cost him calling in several favors, but he resolved the PPTH crisis. It was sheer luck that Mitch Lee, his leukemia specialist, was married to the head of the American Academy of Neurology, and one of the biggest gossips on the medical circuit. Putting a bug in her ear about House victimizing Foreman was easy. Owens' problem, private and embarrassing as it was, was harder to uncover than it was to fix. Wilson made sure Cuddy knew all about Owens' stupid college incident and made doubly sure that it could never be used against him again. In the end both Foreman and Owens retracted their resignations. Cuddy gave them better parking spaces for their trouble. She didn't stop threatening to assign House a steady stream of STD and flu cases, but Wilson figured House had earned that from her and let it go.

House had been drinking steadily ever since they got back from Mickey's. Wilson could only guess at his state of mind, but knew it had to be bad. He'd dealt with the minor problems first, needing to clear them out of the way before he tackled House.

Wilson came out of his study. House was in the living room watching television. A glass of bourbon was leaving sweat rings on the latest Journal of Irreproducible Results. House turned off the set, emptied his glass, and raised his eyes to Wilson's.

"It's not actually that I'm still depressed," Wilson lied. "I'm just… self-conscious."

"Even though you know that no one can see the scars."

Wilson gave a sad little laugh. "Doesn't matter. I know they're there."

House, who probably knew more about this than Wilson ever wanted to, asked, "That perfect image no longer being so perfect--it makes you feel different? Inadequate? Insecure?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause. Then House said, "That's why I made the appointment."

"I know," Wilson said. "I just--there are more pressing needs."

"The world won't end if you go to a cosmetic surgery consultation on a day you aren't working."

"I know," Wilson repeated softly. He did know. He wasn't sure why he was so reluctant to do this, except that he wanted to forget the entire thing. He wanted to pretend none of it had ever happened. Barring that, he wanted to believe that he was completely recovered, and entirely back to normal. But he wasn't, not yet. He didn't really even know how to get back there. The new normal included things like pressure bandages and cosmetic surgery and a hell of a lot of extra strength Tylenol, and if those were truly the only differences between then and now he wouldn't feel nearly so lost. "Are you still coming with me?"

"Of course," House said. "You can't have couples scar therapy by yourself."


	7. Chapter 7

Wilson made it halfway to the kitchen. Then he turned back. "You do know that they didn’t mean to hurt me? They didn’t mean to hurt anyone."

"That's why they call it manslaughter."

Wilson did a double take. "Last I checked I was still alive."

"In the legal system," House clarified impatiently. "If you kill someone accidentally it's still a crime."

"Which they're not guilty of, since I'm not dead. That medical genius reputation of yours is pretty inflated if you didn't notice."

"You could have been. They were careless and stupid, too wrapped up in their game to see what they were doing. You should be angry with them. But you're not."

Wilson spread his arms, fumbling for a way to explain. "Because that's not how it works. They didn't see the grill. You didn't see them. By your logic I…I should be mad at you."

There was a pause. Then House said, "Maybe you should."

The truth hit him. "You're angry at yourself."

"No," House said too forcefully. "But you should be."

"Why? House--you didn't do anything wrong."

House looked down--at his leg, at the floor, Wilson couldn't tell. He made no other answer.

"House," Wilson started. His voice quavered and he stopped, unsure of what he'd been going to say. He had to get House to stop punishing people over the accident. He had to convince House he wasn't angry with him.

Bangbangbang, someone knocked loudly. Bangbang.

Great. Now Cuddy was at the door--it had to be Cuddy, no one else knew they were back--and she and House would do their thing, and his conversation with House would get put off and forgotten.

House was looking at him, ignoring the bangbanging, a sardonic half smile on his face. He wasn't any happier to be interrupted than Wilson was. Then he tilted his head in apology and went to let her in.

The shrieking began. Wilson decided that now was a good time to unpack and get some laundry started.

"Wilson!" Cuddy called, and before he could think twice he'd stopped, put a neutral yet sympathetic expression on his face, and turned back to them.

"Why would the man who swears he loves me--"

"Don't drag Wilson into this!" House yelled, and Wilson agreed desperately, _yes, don't drag Wilson into this_.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. House's volume increased.

Wilson took advantage of their mutual distraction to retreat down the hall. He gave the outcome even odds whether they'd end up with a vigorous bout of make up sex or with her slamming her way out of the loft.

This, this, was why it was a bad idea for him and House to live together again. He just didn't have the stamina to deal with the drama anymore. He hurt, and he was tired, and all he wanted to do was lie down in peace and quiet for a while.

He should unpack before he lay down. He'd feel better when things were back in place. Wilson unzipped his suitcase. He took out a neat stack of casual shirts and put them in the drawer. He took out his pants and slid open the closet door.

Sam's half was empty.

He'd known she had cleared her stuff out, but seeing the emptiness there…it left an ache deep in his chest. Wilson dropped the pants. They fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. He closed the closet, afraid that House would see, even though he already knew that Sam was gone. He was the one who had warned Wilson he was pushing her away in the first place. So what Wilson was afraid House would read into a half empty closet he wasn’t sure, unless it had something to do with the echo of that emptiness inside him.

Wilson sat down on the bed. Depression, he knew, was a normal part of recovery from trauma and pain and the ragged endings of relationships. His anxiety had faded to nothing, and the depression would too. Eventually. All he had to do was ride it out until then.

A flash of color caught his eye. There, on the nightstand. Sam had left a card. There was a bright bouquet painted on the front. Wilson picked it up gingerly, like it might explode.

She apologized. She said it would never have worked between them, and she was sorry to leave him while he was recovering but a clean break was best. She asked him not to hate her.

Wilson sat on the edge of the bed and read the card over again, and then again. The words never changed. Their meaning never changed, but still he read on.

There were a hundred things he should be doing, a hundred ways to distract himself from his loneliness. He should unpack, take a shower, do laundry, get some dinner, go grocery shopping, get an update on his department, check his email…

He'd take care of it all. In just a minute.

Outside the screaming had continued, the volume changing slightly as House and Cuddy moved through the loft. Their fight was punctuated by clangs and crashes as someone--probably Cuddy--threw things around. Now they went silent.

The sudden quiet worried Wilson. He should go out there and stop them before the fight got too bad. Before they destroyed something, or each other, and Wilson had to put the pieces back together for them.

I'm too tired for this, he thought. He had a lot of practice doing things he was too tired to do, though, and a second later he forced himself to get up and go down the hallway. He arrived in the living room in time to see House slam Cuddy up against the entryway wall and press himself against her.

"God damn you," she said. Her lips sought his.

Wilson turned away. He didn't want to watch two people he cared about having hate sex. He was going to spread his things out so the closet didn't look so empty, and--

\-- holy crap!

His kitchen! They'd demolished his kitchen. His spice rack was on its side, glass jars broken and scattered. Orange, yellow and brown spices covered the floor. He crouched down to get a better look, could identify only caraway seeds, star anise, and saffron. Of course they'd gotten the saffron. A set of le Creuset pots had been hurled at the wall and left deep gouges in the plaster. His favorite stoneware casserole, which he'd left to air dry on the counter the day of the barbecue and which no one had ever put away, had also been thrown. It's cherry red pieces were strewn across the floor amidst scattered cooking utensils and the broken pieces of a wooden spoon.

Wilson glanced back at them. House was taking her on the entryway floor. Her nails raked his back.

He stared at them in sheer disbelief. Well. He'd come out here expecting to have to clean up their mess. He hadn't realized the process would be quite so literal.

Wilson started picking up red stoneware fragments and realized that some of the pieces were large. Maybe he could repair it? Maybe when his friends were done mauling each other they'd help him clean up, and replace the things they'd broken. Maybe the mess wasn't as bad as it looked.

Wilson crouched on the floor and started fitting the jagged pieces back together.

Pants and grunts came from the entryway. Wilson knew he should be turned on by hearing them fuck. He should be stealing glances as they went at each other. House had been wrong, though. Wilson's sex drive had never recovered from the accident. It bothered him that this was so, and what made it worse was that this was probably as close to actual sex as he was going to come for a good long time. He should at least be enjoying it, and he wasn't.

He'd made good progress, but some of the shards he needed were missing. Either they'd skittered under the refrigerator or been ground to dust under angry feet. Wilson got up to move the fridge. If he could find the last few parts he could …he could…what?

What exactly had he been thinking? What was he going to do? Use tape? Glue it back together? Any adhesive would render the casserole unusable. Fitting the pieces back together had been a stupid, pointless, useless waste of time.

Wilson sank back down to the floor, his head in his hands. You'd think he'd know by now that some things couldn't be fixed.

After a while the front door opened and then closed. Wilson heard the click of the lock sliding home, and House's thumping steps as he moved through the loft. The steps came into the kitchen, and stopped.

House's voice when he spoke was happy, the voice of a man who'd just had satisfying sex. "Are you sitting there mourning for your kitchen?"

Wilson tried to think of something witty to say and came up blank.

"Seriously?" House asked, his voice rising in incredulity. He brushed some broken glass aside with his shoe and sat beside Wilson on the floor. "It's not that big a deal. Just sweep, run a vacuum cleaner if you're feeling anal about the glass, and buy some new kitchen crap. You can get the wall replastered. You should be happy for an excuse to have the kitchen painted. It's boring."

Wilson waved his hand at the pile of red fragments. His voice caught as he said, "I can't put it back together."

House rolled his eyes. "You can buy another. Or was this one your special favorite pot in the whole wide world? Just clean up. Stop obsessing. You're like some '50s housewife."

Wilson laughed humorlessly. "You think _I_ should clean this up? You think _I_ should replace what's broken?" Wilson's voice rose. "You did this. You--you and your girlfriend come in here like a pair of drunken rabid elephants, you sweep everything off my counter, damage my walls, ruin my kitchen, maim my cookware, all because you can't admit that you are completely incompatible, and you want me to fix it?" Wilson threw down the jagged pieces he'd been imagining he could reassemble. "I can't fix this! It's broken, and it's useless, and the best anyone can do now is throw it in the trash."

House stared at him, his eyes like searchlights. "Are you sure we're talking about a pot?"

Suddenly Wilson couldn't breathe, because they weren't, were they? "No."

House gave a little nod. "I didn't think so."

Wilson bit his lip. Then he heard himself tell House about Sam's card, about the empty closet and his own loneliness, about his fear that he wouldn't be able to go back to work, that the man he was now couldn't do his old job. All the while House listened, and those intense blue eyes watched his face.

Wilson felt a little lighter when he'd finished. The silence between him and House stretched on, but it was comfortable.

"I'll replace your stuff," House said, and then, "Are you still pissed?"

Wilson shrugged, embarrassed now that he'd made such a big deal over nothing. "It wasn't your fault. She's the one who did the throwing."

"Yeah," House acknowledged. "So are you?"

Wilson frowned at House's stubborn attachment to the topic. House looking for reassurance was unusual. He thought Wilson should be mad at him…and he'd been kind of a dick lately…

"Wait a minute. You've been wanting me to get mad at you all this time. You've been acting selfish deliberately to piss me off."

House tilted his head, a grin playing about his lips. "It hasn't worked, either. So," he said, glancing significantly around the wreckage. "Am I forgiven?"

Wilson sighed. Took a breath. "That depends. Did you orchestrate the destruction of my kitchen just so I'd get angry at you and then get over it?"

"No," House said. "But you have to admit it was convenient."

Wilson snorted. "Then yes. So as long as you help me clean up."

"Okay," House said, and that should have been that, except it wasn't. Something was off. House was listing a little, or his eyes shifted…. something told Wilson in no uncertain terms that House was still unsettled.

Wilson caught at his sleeve to keep him from rising. "I don't blame you for the accident," he said earnestly. "I never did. I made a choice back then. It was the right one. I don't regret protecting you, and I don't want you to regret it either."

House was silent for a long moment. "Why'd you do it?" he asked finally. "Are you going to tell me you'd do the same for anyone?"

"I hope so," Wilson said seriously. "I don't know, okay? I don't know if I'd have done it for Foreman or Brown or…or Cuddy. I don't even know if I'd have done it for Sam. Not for sure. All I can tell you is, in that moment, I saw a chance to protect a friend--to keep you from getting hurt, and I took it, and I hope to God I'd do it again."

House ran his fingers lightly over Wilson's scars. "You'll have these for the rest of your life. You lost your girlfriend, and your issues now have issues. You didn't know what it would cost you."

Wilson shrugged. "That isn't the worst of what it cost me. I'd still do it again."

"You didn't lose anything else," House argued. "You're just scared you might have."

"Come again?"

"You think you lost some part of yourself, that you're no longer strong enough to be a shoulder for everyone to cry on or a solver of everyone's problems. You're wrong. You spent hours today fixing things for Foreman and Owens. You came out here while Lisa and I were fighting to make sure we were okay, and if we weren't, I have no doubt you'd have stepped in, and gotten yelled at by both of us."

Wilson nodded. That's exactly what would have happened.

"You were tired," House went on. "You didn't want to deal with our immaturity, but you came out anyway. You couldn't help it. It's who you are. You're scared, Wilson. That's all this is. You aren't exactly the same guy you were before the accident, but you aren't all that different either. Or are you really going to condemn yourself based on your inability to piece together a bit of broken pottery?"

Wilson felt the breath leave him in a rush. Could House be right?

"Don't worry," House said. "You'll be rescuing damsels in distress again in no time."

The sheer force of House's personality washed over him. It was impossible not to believe House like this, impossible to doubt his sincerity.

"You really think…?" Wilson asked. He knew House did, but he wanted to hear the words.

House smiled, just a little. "You're okay," he said.

Wilson bit his lip, torn between honesty in this rare, open moment, and the comfortable familiarity of lies. "I don't feel okay."

"You will," House said, with absolute certainty. His gaze never wavered, as if he were willing Wilson to believe his words.

It worked. Wilson nodded once. Then he straightened up, groaning a little. He took out the broom and mop and held them to House. "Next time you fight with Cuddy," he said, picking up the largest shards of glass and stoneware and throwing them in the trash, "do it at her place. I guarantee she'll throw less stuff at you, and neither of us will have to clean up the mess."

After the kitchen was clean and everything salvageable had been put away, Wilson stretched his exhausted body out on the couch. House wandered over to the organ. Wilson drifted off to sleep as the first soft, intricate chords began to sound.

 

****************************************************

 

Wilson was up to his wrists in warm, soapy water, scrubbing the big pasta bowl free of the last scraps of risotto.

Beside him House poured Frangelico into two tiny cordial glasses. The sunlight streamed through their windows from behind, gilding the tiny hairs on his forearms.

"Are you done with that yet?" House reached out for the bowl. Their fingers brushed against each other as he took it from Wilson's unresisting grasp. House loaded the bowl into the dishwasher.

Wilson picked up the two glasses and followed House to the couch. He settled back against the cushions with a contented sigh. He was a little sore from working with House to patch the plaster, but it felt good, really, to be sore from exertion. The smell of the meal House had made still permeated the air. Whether it was this or just the comfort of returning to his own space and his own life he didn’t know, but Wilson was feeling exceptionally good.

House raised his glass. "L'chaim."

Wilson smiled, because it did feel like he was coming back to life. He clinked House's glass with his. "And happiness."

House didn't smile, but the lines around his eyes eased. 

Together, they drank.

 

 

End


End file.
